


Don't Speak

by Meega_Nala_Kweesta



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Non-Graphic Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-30
Updated: 2014-11-02
Packaged: 2018-01-17 13:12:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1388953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meega_Nala_Kweesta/pseuds/Meega_Nala_Kweesta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on the song "Don't Speak" by No Doubt. <br/>The boys have just come from dinner with Harry and her new girlfriend, which Sherlock turned into a disaster. John, after arguing with his sister, takes his anger out on Sherlock. But John goes too far and Sherlock runs out of the flat in pain and in tears. While out there, something happens to Sherlock that will change things forever.</p>
<p>Also on FanFiction.net under the same name</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You and Me

**Author's Note:**

> My second story :) Thanks to AmandineGrace for being my Beta. This work contains mild swearing, nothing really all that bad, I don't think. Also not-very-graphic descriptions of violence.  
> Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or the song, only the storyline

When the cab pulled up outside 221B Baker Street, the cabbie was more than happy to be getting rid of his two passengers who had been sniping at each other the whole ride. The short, angry blonde man jumped out of the cab and stomped towards the door, shouting that the tall dark-haired one could pay the fare, though his exact words were “you pay for once, you cheap bastard!”. The man that remained in the cab sighed, but got out of the cab, tugging his wallet out of an inner pocket of his long, dramatic coat and pulling fifty quid, which was three times the fare, out of it, handing it to the cabbie before striding off, calling for him to “keep the change”. Not ready to look a gift horse in the mouth, the cabbie quickly took off, all the while wondering about the strange duo, and thanking whoever was looking out for him that they were out of his cab.

            The duo in question, Dr John ‘short, blonde angry man’ Watson and Consulting Detective Sherlock ‘tall dark-haired one’ Holmes, were still arguing when they opened the door to the living room of their flat, having ignored their landlady, Mrs Hudson, when they walked past her on the way in.

            “I am just so _sick_ of the _shit_ you put me through, Sherlock!” John yelled at his flatmate, colleague, friend, “why can you never think of the effect your actions and words will have on _me_?!”

            Sherlock watched the doctor passing in front of him with a slight frown marring the otherwise smooth surface of his brow.

            “I still don’t understand why you are so upset, John,” he said, the calm, condescending tone he had been using to speak to his friend the whole time, which seemed to make John angrier and angrier the more they spoke, not that Sherlock noticed, “All I did was point out that if her mother didn’t lose weight she was going to die in the next three years. I thought she would have been more grateful for the information, she has time to reverse it now, after all”

            John stared at Sherlock for a second in complete disbelief before completely descending into a red haze.

            “Sherlock, you complete and utter _ARSE_!” He raged, “I have had enough of you and your absolutely stupid behaviour! Harry and I have just started to get along again, and then you go and insult her new girlfriend! I was actually really hoping to get along with this one, then maybe Harry and I could…. and you had to go and ruin it for me, do you ever think of anyone but yourself? Do you even care that you are ruining my life?!”

            Sherlock frowned in confusion.

            “If it makes you less angry, John, I am sorry,” He said slowly and monotonously, as if trying to calm a rabid animal, which he sort of was, but it wasn’t really working. In fact, it seemed to make it worse, “of course I care if you are upset, and as for ruining your life, that woman had a history of adultery, I was doing Harry a favour by getting ri—”

            The rest of Sherlock’s words were cut off by the introduction of John’s fist to his jaw. His head snapped back and he felt his vertebrae pop and crack a little at the abrupt motion. While John managed to stay on his feet, even when his momentum carried him a little too far forward, Sherlock, who had never expected to be punched in the face by his blogger, fell completely backwards and banged his head on the doorframe.

            He sat dazed for a moment then gingerly sat up before lifting his arm and sifting the long elegant fingers of his right hand through the thick curls at the back of his head, near the crown. He found the impact site and immediately felt a gash in the skin. He couldn’t tell how deep it was, but felt that it would more than likely need stitches. His left hand was cradled to his chest, as he had landed on it in his fall and it was throbbing, but because of the blow to is head, he couldn’t tell whether it was just a severe sprain, or a fracture. The Consulting Detective knew he had probably had a concussion, which would explain his fuzzy thoughts and tiredness. Pulling his fingers away from the cut, knowing that the prodding was only making it worse, Sherlock tried to catalogue his injuries. Bleeding bump on the back of his head, check, split lip from encountering John’s fist, check, sprained or broken wrist from encountering the floor, check. _‘Anything else?’_ he thought to himself, but quickly decided that he would leave the diagnosis to his doctor…once said doctor had forgiven him for whatever it was he had done wrong…

            John had noticed Sherlock’s head connect with the doorframe, but through the rage he didn’t hear the sickening duet of the cracking sounds his head and wrist made. He didn’t notice Sherlock’s fingers come away from his hair red, and while he noticed him cradling his other hand to his chest, the idea that it was seriously injured didn’t cross his mind. All he really saw was the pain in his flatmate’s eyes, and his split lip. John felt a kind of grim satisfaction that he was the one to have put them there. Usually his rage would die off after one of his fists had flown, but this time it just kept building.

            And he just couldn’t bring himself to care.

            In John’s mind, Sherlock deserved this, no matter how much logic argued against that, he felt sure that the man sitting slumped on the ground before him was the reason is whole life was a mess, and that made him _mad_.

            John stood towering over Sherlock’s long-limbed form on the ground, and glared down at the man he had once protected, and who now seemed to need protection from him. Not that the Consulting Detective was going to get it.

            Sherlock backed off a little at the pure malice that burned in his friend’s eyes. He truly did not understand what had made John so angry with him. He had never seen the doctor as enraged as he was at that moment. And Sherlock was nervous. Not that he would ever admit it, of course, but his friend was terrifying when he got rubbed the wrong way. Sherlock didn’t know what to do, and he hated not knowing.

            John stared down at Sherlock for a long moment, noting with a feeling of satisfaction mixed with a tiny bit of guilt that there was a gleam of fear in Sherlock’s eyes. He was sick of the man in front of him. He was tired of giving and never receiving. He was sick and tired of never getting acknowledged by him that he helped a lot on their cases. John watched as Sherlock shuffled backwards, going until his back hit the doorframe, and ignored the little voice in the back of his head that was telling him that Sherlock was his best friend and that he was just mad because Harry had gotten drunk and broken up with her girlfriend, and then blamed it on John because he had been the one to bring “the tall freak”. John knew that, but he also knew that Sherlock would forgive him getting mad and yelling at him, and John _really_ needed to blow off some steam. Sherlock was the logical choice, because very few things truly insulted him, and of those things, none of them bothered him for very long.

            “You are the most offensive person I have ever had the misfortune of keeping company with.” John spat at Sherlock, looking him straight in the eye, but not noticing that Sherlock’s were going wide in hurt, and that they were glazing over with tears. In John’s mind, they were solid and uncaring, they were robot’s eyes, because that is what John needed them to be, just this once. “You are inhuman, cruel, narcissistic, selfish, egotistical,” John continued to spout off insults and with each one Sherlock’s heart broke a little bit more.

            They had been living together for a few years now, and over that time they had always been together. There had barely been a day that they hadn’t been in each other’s company, and Sherlock had grown to love his blogger, first as a colleague, then as a friend, then best friend, and now he knew what he should have figured out long ago. He was in love with John Watson. But Sherlock was also realising that he had blown any chance to be with this man, his best friend. Through an offensive action that Sherlock was unable to comprehend the circumstances of, he was losing his best friend.

            Sherlock couldn’t believe that after everything they had gone through this would be the end of them. That John would let go of their friendship just like that. That John would let go of him. He had been sure that John had at least seen him as a friend, and that they would always be friends.

            And then John said the words that not only broke Sherlock’s once frozen heart that had thawed just for the short army doctor, but shattered it, along with his soul.

            “Anderson and Donavon were right; you are a psychopath, a complete and utter….” Sherlock was begging with his eyes and his mind _‘please, John, not you, don’t say that word, I can recover from everything else, just don’t. Say. That. Word.’_ “….freak” And that is when Sherlock Holmes broke.

            John saw that moment, and froze. He had gone too far, he knew he had. His vision of cold, calculating robot eyes drifted away, as did his anger, as he realised just what he had said to his best friend. Now John saw everything, and he hated it.

            John saw the possibly broken wrist, he saw the blood on Sherlock’s fingers that came from the back of his head, and he saw the signs of a concussion.

            John saw his best friend, cowering in fear. Cowering in fear _because of him_.

            Sherlock looked up at John and felt everything in his mind shatter. He could no longer tell what was happening elsewhere. All he saw was the terrifying vision of John Watson, the man that he loved, looking at him with anger and disgust. Sherlock felt tears fall down his cheeks just as he made the decision to block out this moment. If this was what his reality was like, he didn’t want to know.

            John had never seen Sherlock frightened before, nor had he ever seen him cry.

            Sherlock was crying. John had made Sherlock cry.

            John looked at his best friends eyes and wondered to himself _‘how the hell are you going to fix this one, Watson?’_.

            Could Sherlock even be fixed?

_You and me_

_We used to be together_

_Every day together always_

_I really feel_

_That I’m losing my best friend_

_I can’t believe_

_This could be the end_

_It looks as though you’re letting go_

_And if it’s real_

_Well I don’t want to know_


	2. Don't Speak

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the second chapter! Thanks again to AmandineGrace for being my Beta! Please enjoy!

            Sherlock was broken. Nothing mattered right now except for the look on John’s face, and the shattered fragments of Sherlock’s own heart. As he sat on the floor, John staring at Sherlock, Sherlock staring at John, he wondered how it was possible that there were ice splinters in his chest.

            John looked down at Sherlock, and just as he went to apologise, to say he didn’t mean it, Sherlock bolted upright and stumbled unsteadily out the door. John was frozen, even when he heard Sherlock slip and fall down at least five stairs. John had no idea how to fix this.

            Sherlock had seen John’s mouth open and had decided that he didn’t want him to speak, didn’t want him to explain his insults. It hurt too much. Sherlock raced out the front door of the flat and took off down the street.

            Sherlock could tell that John had been about to apologise to him. While not knowing much about emotional matters, Sherlock knew to know that most apologies were false, and he was sure John’s would have been one of the fake ones. He didn’t need to hear John’s reasons. He didn’t think he could handle the hurt of it again.

            As Sherlock was quickly walking down the street, lost in his thoughts and the pain of the frozen splinters in his chest that had once been his heart, he failed to look where he was going, didn’t notice the cab tearing around the corner just a little too quick.

            He didn’t hear the squeal of tires as the cabbie fought to stop the car before the collision.

            And he most definitely didn’t feel as the heavy vehicle collided with his body, throwing him in the air before he crashed back to the road. Sherlock’s vision went dark before he could even begin to process what had happened.

            John was still standing in the same place, staring at the place Sherlock had hit his head, when Mrs. Hudson came up and asked him what all the shouting had been about.

            John had been about to answer her when he heard the squeal of tires, the thud of a body hitting first metal, and then the road. He heard screams and an almighty crash as metal hit a solid ending point. And John knew.

            Somehow John just _knew_ that Sherlock had been involved somehow.

            John hoped to god as he ran down the stairs of 221B Baker Street that Sherlock was okay.

            He prayed to anything that was listening that the last words he had ever said to his best friend were not insults and the dreaded word _freak_.

_Don’t speak_

_I know just what you’re saying_

_So please stop explaining_

_Don’t tell me cause it hurts_

_Don’t speak I know just what you’re thinking_

_I don’t need your reasons_

_Don’t tell me cause it hurts_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's the second chapter, I hope you enjoyed it. I know, it's short, I'm sorry! Please comment and let me know what you thought :) third chapter will be up soon.  
> 'Till next we meet,  
> Nala


	3. Our Memories

 

            Sherlock startled to what felt like awareness . All he could see was black. He turned around and came face to face with the door to 221B.

            He frowned in confusion. Why was it so dark out? And why could he only see the door to the flat? Where was the rest of the building?

            How did he get there?

            Last he remembered he was running away from the flat. Away from John, who had called him… _that_ word.

            Sherlock shook his head to dislodge the memory, and tried to focus on what was in front of him, rather than the pain in his heart.

            Pain. That was another thing. He knew that he had injured his wrist, and John had split his lip when he punched him. Sherlock flinched at the memory, then proceeded to examine the areas on his body that had previously held injuries. There weren’t any injuries, not anymore.

            Sherlock was more confused than ever, but as the door was his only option, he opened it and walked through.

            In a flash of white light, he found himself standing off to the side watching himself as he worked in the lab of Barts. He recognised this scene. It was when he first met John.

            Just as he had that thought, Mike Stamford and John Watson walked through the door.

            Sherlock remembered how he had wanted to impress John, how he had instantly wanted to get to know him.

            After that memory, there were the ones of them getting the flat, and their first case. Sherlock couldn’t help but smile as he saw himself falling in love with the ex-army doctor. He was able to forget about the current John, and the fight they had just had. He knew he should be trying to find out what was going on, but these memories, the good memories, were just too inviting. So Sherlock decided to stay, just for a little while. After all, how often was it that one got to view their own memories from a third person perspective? Or watch as they changed for the better when they started to fall in love?

            ******

John was still praying when his feet found the footpath outside the door. He nearly fell as he ran towards where a crowd was gathering a little down the road.

As he got closer, he soon saw the car, a cab, smashed against the wall of a building twenty or so metres away from him. John felt nothing for the driver of the car, he didn’t even care about him at that moment, because he was looking for someone else.

And then he saw him.

Sherlock was broken. That was the only way to describe him. His lower body was laying at an awkward angle, indicating his spine was probably broken. His right arm and leg were also broken, and he had a long and deep gash running from forehead to chin and going right through his left eye.

John leaned into the gutter and threw up. He couldn’t handle this. All he could think of was the fight. It seemed to be replaying over and over in front of his eyes, except this time, he didn’t see robot-eyes, he saw pain-filled ones. Love-filled ones.

Tears were streaming down his face as he looked once more at his best friends broken body. Sherlock looked dead. John felt dead.

John sat as close to Sherlock as he could get and put his head in his hands, his frame wracked by heavy, heartbreaking sobs.

He barely heard as Mrs. Hudson reached the crash site and screamed an agonised shout of Sherlock’s name.

 

_Our memories_

_Well, they can be inviting_

_But some are altogether_

_Mighty frightening_

_As we die, both you and I_

_With my head in my hands_

_I sit and cry_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo, third chapter done and dusted! Now I need to write the fourth.....  
> Please comment and let me know what you thought!  
> 'Till next we meet,  
> Nala


	4. I Know Just What You're Saying

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry! /(OoO)\  
> I know you all probably don't care, but, the reason I haven't updated (when a few of you might have noticed it was updated on Fanfic.net) is because I had written the chapter, but a lot of stuff happened, and I never got around to uploading it on here!  
> Things haven't been going great for me :( I recently hit crisis point, and then just when I started getting better, I lost one of my best friends to the very same thing I was recovering from. It hit me pretty hard...still does.
> 
> Anyway, enough about me (if you even read this), Let's get on with the story!

John startled out of his sobbing when paramedics arrived and started swarming over Sherlock and the cab driver.  
He held his breath as they continued working on Sherlock. That meant he was alive. If they were pumping air into him and moving him onto a backboard, that meant that Sherlock was alive. He refused to acknowledge the little voice in the back of his head that said ‘for now’.  
He didn’t go to help the people around his best friend. His hands were shaking too much to have been of any use, but he did keep close by, and told one of them, shakily, that he was his friend. They sat him at the doors to the ambulance, where Mrs. Hudson joined him to wait for Sherlock to be loaded into the vehicle.  
A few minutes later, Sherlock was stabilised enough to be loaded up. They let John ride with them in the back, while Mrs. Hudson said she would find her own way.  
John could barely breathe. Sherlock was right in front of him, his beautiful face covered in crimson, and his skin more pale than ever as the life drained from him. John was scared, more scared than he had ever been in his life, because he was figuring it out now. Figuring out the true place that Sherlock held in his heart. He held the largest part.  
And his heart was breaking as he realised that, not only might he not get the chance to tell him, but even if Sherlock did recover, John had called him a freak…the word he knew Sherlock was most sensitive to. He had ruined any chance of ever being with the man. Had maybe even destroyed their friendship at the same moment. And what would he do if Sherlock didn’t want to know him anymore? What if he never wanted to see him again, and kicked him out of the flat?  
And then John looked at Sherlock again and realised that it probably didn’t matter. Because Sherlock looked so broken. But John shook his head and refused to believe that Sherlock would not recover.  
When the ambulance arrived at the hospital, whichever one they were at, since John hadn’t been paying attention, he was gently but firmly pulled away from Sherlock as he was rushed into emergency surgery, and pulled into one of the many waiting rooms. A cup of sweet tea was pushed into his hands and he drank it automatically before handing the cup back to the nurse in front of him. The woman said something about Sherlock being given the best care available, and how the doctors would do their best, but John couldn’t hear her. All he could hear was the word freak in his own voice. All he could see was the bruise forming on his knuckles, and the red of blood on his hands. He knew it wasn’t really there, after all, he hadn’t touched Sherlock since that punch to his face. It wasn’t physical blood, but it was there all the same.  
He didn’t know how much time had passed before a presence in front of him made him look up. A doctor stood before him, a sour look on his face.  
Mrs. Hudson was the one that asked the question. John wasn’t sure when she had gotten there, but she was sitting beside him, and he was never more grateful than he was right then. He hadn’t the strength to talk, not yet.  
“How is he?” the little old landlady’s voice was soft and full of grief. She had been through this too many times.  
The doctor sighed, and quietly told them both that it wasn’t looking good. Sherlock was in a coma, and if he woke up, he was guaranteed to be paralysed from the waist down. They had also been unable to save his left eye. The surgery on his arm had gone well though.  
John swallowed thickly as the doctor began to speak statistics and medical facts, telling them how likely Sherlock was to survive, and the reasons they didn’t think it was likely he would wake.  
“Don’t…..”John said softly, and the doctor stopped and looked at him, pity clear in his eyes, “just, don’t.”  
John stood and walked outside. He needed some air.  
As he stood outside, he thought over the doctors words. He knew he would have to go back in and hear the rest, but he couldn’t right now. He knew what he was saying, knew the chances of Sherlock surviving were minimal. And the fact that he knew hurt more than anything he had ever felt before. 

Don’t speak  
I know just what you’re saying  
So please stop explaining  
Don’t tell me cause it hurts (no, no, no)  
Don’t speak I know just what you’re thinking  
I don’t need your reasons  
Don’t tell me cause it hurts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fourth chapter FINALLY up! How was it? I hope I fulfilled your expectations ^_^  
> I will hopefully be able to finish the next chapter soon, but, as you know if you read the beginning note, things aren't that crash hot at the moment...  
> Anyway, I'll try to get it up soon XD
> 
> 'Till next we meet,  
> Nala

**Author's Note:**

> Well, that's the first chapter! Please comment and let me know what you think! Chapters two and three will be up soon.  
> 'Till next we meet,  
> Nala


End file.
